My Work-in-progress teaser page
This is where
I’ll share what I’ve got rattling around in my brain and why.
Who knows? I may even name another dream journal that I hope
will accept it (that is not One Story)!
Anywho, this is why I’ve been WRITING at 7a on the weekends.
Now, I’m up at 7a regardless.
But—and this is a ginormous “but”—the fact that my brain could be creative at that hour was like finding that secret wing of your house that you can only find in your dreams—but once you do, it’s magnificent…
next up:
Yikes, what did veronica vermillion do to ingrid?
The Working Title: “Veronica Vermillion, This Spuds For You!”
The Protagonist: Ingrid Mock
The Antagonists: Absolutely anyone who slights Ingrid Mock…
The What: The art of being petty, as perfected by the protagonist, Ingrid.
The Why: I have never understood why people are driven to be petty. It feels like an enormous amount of wasted energy. What does that get you? I understand how some people see it as a form of karmic comeuppance. Indeed, you have probably had the last word (even if you are the only one to hear it, much like a tree in a forest).
And, as you may have heard or gleaned, I write to understand that which I do not. In this case, I take it to the extreme. Very extreme. I’d like to thank Mark Wish for pointing out how a post on Facebook should actually be a short story. And also, to those who are willing to make such a substantial investment—time, certainly, but also a financial investment in being petty.
This story is my standing ovation for that character and their award-winning performance in the make-believe Broadway show, “The Queen of Pettiness.”
Brava!
in the hopper:
how the hell are we gonna get into heaven?
The Working Title: “F*ck that Chocolate Willy Dude—We Got Your Golden Ticket”
The Protagonists: Sharleeta and Justin “Lobo” Dingus
The Antagonists: TBD
The What: This is based on a fake news story that I came across. One so incredibly fantastic that some other writer or writers are most likely also furiously scribbling their own version as we speak. This fake news story was simply so irresistible that I had no choice but to springboard off it.
It is essentially the most outrageous get-rich-quick scheme imaginable, and it involves cash, fool’s gold, drug paraphernalia, Costco security guards, and a baby alligator named Jesus.
[Thanks to Cindy Brady for recommending that the alligator should be named Jesus!]
The Why: Again, I write to understand that which I do not. This time it is about the lengths people will first go to in order to not have to work, and secondarily the way some people will just buy wholeheartedly into a delusion. No matter how delusional. And people do. Which is why Snopes had to tell everyone that this was FAKE NEWS.
Because there are indeed times when the truth is truly stranger than fiction…
simmering:
what’s to sir, with love got to do with it?
The Working Title: “Cleanup in Aisle 10”
The Who: Yours truly—this is a creative nonfiction essay
The What: My father passed away in October 2022. And as everyone well knows, the path of grief is different for every single person. To wit, siblings. I have three, and we have each navigated our father’s passing quite differently. I am the eldest and was Daddy’s caretaker in his final years. The memories of him that spring first to my mind will vary—not only from my siblings but also differ for myself from day to day. Our coping tools are disparate. I am most certain that no one else has an emotional support radio, for instance.
And, I can’t really speak to the ways in which they have approached managing their grief. For myself, grieving was going to occur as it happened and in its own good time. There would be no marking “stages” or passing milestones. Something that I decided about life in general (about ten years or so ago) was that I was going to do little-to-no thinking about my emotions. I was simply going to allow myself to feel, and move forward accordingly. This of course was and continues to be a journey. But also, by the time of his passing, I was better at heading this approach than not. So, from the outside, it may have appeared that I was not addressing my grief. Which, is actually the polar opposite of the truth. I was going to let it fit, not force it. Just relax and let it go. Let it flow.
So. Sometimes the flow was a creek and others the rapids of the Mississippi. And however it was flowing, I would navigate the waters as need be . . .
The Why: My friend Rick Brown asked what was keeping me from writing about my father. My response was that I honestly did not know what I wanted to say. Which, in that moment, not only felt like the truth. It was the truth.
Mere days later, I would find myself in tears in the grocery store because of a confluence of memories. All you need to know is that brisket and Kansas’s song “Dust in the Wind” came together for the most perfect storm ever. It was such a moving moment. One of the most profound since my daddy passed, for a couple of reasons. The first—and not least significant—is how I have shed relatively few tears in the last twenty-eight and a half months. They were neither suppressed nor unwelcome. There was just far less crying than I anticipated—and would have told you was likely until experience came to pass and indicated otherwise.
Because if you know me, I am super quick to cry. I have yet to watch To Sir, With Love and not cry big, ugly tears during that last scene. IYKYK. All of which is to say, in the last few months I turned a decisive corner with my grief. A hairpin turn, really.
Thanks to Rick, I see now that I have made this turn, which in turn created the space needed to be able to write about my father. The title is a nod to my family.
We all get a turn with cleanup . . .